


Honor to the Vanquished

by Splix_Archive (splix)



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:11:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/Splix_Archive





	Honor to the Vanquished

*

The speeder was going to die again; he was certain of it.

Blue smoke poured from the aft engine, accompanied by an unhealthy sputtering noise. It lurched twice, scattering two months' worth of provisions over the passenger's side, and limped to a stop.

Obi-Wan took his hands off the controls and pressed them to his eyes. "Blast, blast, blast," he muttered. The speeder had chosen a particularly inopportune time and place to expire -- on one of his infrequent supply runs, halfway between his hut and Anchorhead. Squinting up at the twin suns, he calculated the time -- almost midday. There was no way to hike home without perishing in the heat, and to leave anything, including the vehicle, was to risk losing it. He'd likely wait days until someone came along to give him a lift, but scavengers were common, even in these remote parts. There was no choice but to try to fix it here.

He leapt lightly from the speeder and pulled his hood over his head. Easy enough to tow it to the cliffs a little ways back, where he could work in the shade. Opening the service hatch, he found the portable generator and began to hook it up to the now-silent engine.

*

The lower engine panel was little more than rusty lace. Obi-Wan discovered a good-sized hole in the dust filter, doubtless caused by a flying chunk of rock. There was probably a load of sand and pebbles clogging the motor. He'd have to siphon it out by hand and recharge the engine. He'd be lucky if he finished by nightfall.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he said aloud. "Armies of 'droids to descend from the sky? Get to work, Kenobi."

Whimsically, he peered upward. No 'droids. Smiling a little, he stripped off his cloak.

*

As he'd suspected, it had taken a long time to remove all the dirt and debris. The suns skimmed the horizon by the time he finished, filthy, sore, exhausted, and famished, but optimistic. Once he hooked up the generator, the engines would be ready in an hour or two.

Obi-Wan set the connections, flipped the switch, and heard the satisfying hum of the charging engines. Now there was nothing to do but wait. He took a grain bar, his water flask, and his cloak, and trudged to a rock flat enough to sit on. He cleaned his greasy hands on a palmful of sand, then ate his meager dinner, watching the colors of the sky shift from gold to pink to violet. The sight was soothing. Even in this barren wasteland, there was exquisite beauty to be found. 

"A lovely evening," said a deep, quiet voice.

Obi-Wan could not suppress a slight grin. "Indeed it is."

"I see you're having speeder trouble."

"Some minor repairs," Obi-Wan allowed. "If you were more corporeal, you could have helped me, and I'd be home by now."

A soft laugh rent the air. "True. But you were always the better mechanic, Obi-Wan." Shimmering points of bluish light materialized before Obi-Wan's eyes, then coalesced into the image of Qui-Gon Jinn.

This manifestation was still new enough to fill Obi-Wan with wonder each time it occurred. And as ever, it filled him with a confusing melange of emotion -- joy at the sight of his beloved master, a longing to embrace the glowing form, and dismay at the knowledge that he could not. The first time Qui-Gon had appeared to him, Obi-Wan had reached out to take his hand, but grasped only empty air. Since then, he had not attempted to touch the image.

But it was Qui-Gon; even if the form was insubstantial, Obi-Wan felt himself fully in his master's serene presence. The Force surrounded them both, reassuring, grounding, as luminous as Qui-Gon's image. To wish for more would be the epitome of  
greed. It was enough to see him, to speak with him. Qui-Gon smiled, and Obi-Wan smiled back. His heart ached, but how glad he was to see his master, how very glad. "Good evening, Qui-Gon."

"Good evening, Padawan. I see you have things well in hand."

"Well enough. Still, I'd prefer to be away from here before the Tuskens come. This is their territory." Obi-Wan glanced around at the empty landscape. He shrugged. His lightsaber rarely left his side, and he could take care of himself.

"The past half year has been a challenge for you."

"You always did have a gift for understatement, Master." Obi-Wan tossed back the last of his water. "The truth is, I'm running short of money. I had little when I came, and less now...I'm going to have to learn a trade, I think, or try subsistence farming. Otherwise I'll have to sell myself to the brothel in Mos Eisley, and that's a sinister place, I can tell you."

Qui-Gon's eyes crinkled in amusement. "I don't think you need resort to that, Padawan."

"We shall see." Obi-Wan stood, and stretched. Darkness had fallen, and the night was cold. Obi-Wan pulled on his cloak and moved toward the speeder, knowing Qui-Gon would follow. It was a peculiar thing, this passivity; in the past, Qui-Gon had always led, his steps long and swift, while Obi-Wan struggled to keep up. Now he seemed content to follow as Obi-Wan moved around his hut, or over the sands. Death had drained the urgency from him.

The engines were charging nicely. Satisfied, Obi-Wan began to walk again, strolling along the cliff face. Night sounds surrounded them -- soft wind, insects, the sharp yipping of a family of tapuse kits some distance away. Qui-Gon's image shone brighter in the dark. From time to time Obi-Wan stole glances at him, his memory supplying lost details. The scent of clothing and hair, warm, clean smells. The tread of his boots upon any surface; blindfolded, Obi-Wan could pick Qui-Gon from a crowd simply by listening to his footsteps. The texture and heat of his skin. "I saw Luke today," Obi-Wan said abruptly.

"No objection from Lars?"

"Oh, he objected," Obi-Wan admitted ruefully. "It's quite plain that he thinks me a menace and a fool. But his wife has some lingering gratitude towards me -- or pity, I can't tell which. In any case, I was able to spend a few moments with him before Lars terminated the visit. Presumably I constitute an unhealthy influence on the child."

"Surely your influence is preferable to Anakin's."

"Vader's," Obi-Wan's correction was barely audible. "Luke looks well," he continued. "Strong and vigorous. The Temple would have taken him in an instant."

"He may be a Jedi yet," Qui-Gon countered.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "The Jedi are no more, Qui-Gon."

"You are alive, are you not? And Yoda..."

"And sometimes I think we are the only two," Obi-Wan replied. "I have not dared to search for others. I fear leaving Luke unprotected."

"Let it go for now, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon advised. "Another time, perhaps."

"Perhaps." They walked for a time without speaking. They had often walked together on countless worlds, comfortable with speech or silence. Obi-Wan wondered if Qui-Gon remembered. At length they came to the edge of the cliff, where three tall rocks clustered together, unusually symmetrical and evenly spaced. "Strange," Obi-Wan remarked. "It almost appears deliberate."

"It is. This is a tomb."

"A tomb?" Obi-Wan moved closer to the stones, and now saw marks upon their surface -- crude, as though carved with a vibroshiv. "It's writing. Not terribly old, by the depth of the scoring. I can't read it, though."

"The language is that of the Tusken people. It commemorates the death of an entire encampment, slaughtered by a single offworlder."

"One person wiped out an entire encampment?" It was difficult to believe. The sand people were notoriously aggressive; even Obi-Wan preferred not to tangle with them if at all possible.

"Yes. Search the Force, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan threw Qui-Gon a puzzled frown. "You want me to discover who killed them? Very well..." Obi-Wan closed his eyes and reached out through the Force, sifting through time and memories, rooted deeply in the sandy soil, the rocks, the hardy plants, the small creatures who made this desert their home.

When the discovery came, it nearly felled him. He staggered forward a step, bracing himself on one of the monuments. "Anakin," he whispered. "Anakin killed them."

"Yes."

"But why?" Obi-Wan swung round to face Qui-Gon. "Why would he do such a thing?" A mental picture of Anakin, his face contorted with rage, wavered in Obi-Wan's consciousness and dissolved. "He had not turned...yet..."

"They killed his mother." Sadness edged Qui-Gon's voice. "So he retaliated. Not only the warriors, but the females, the elderly, the children, even the animals. He did not stop until every living thing lay dead."

Obi-Wan sank to his knees, shivering, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He could lie in the sun tomorrow, he thought, and this terrible chill would never leave his bones. He looked up at the sky, at the millions of stars scattered across its surface. Anakin -- Vader -- was out there on a planet orbiting one of those bright points of light, slave to Emperor Palpatine, evil festering in his ruined body. Scourge of the galaxy, they called him; even on Tatooine, reports of Vader's cruelty had reached his ears. Every piece of tragic news was a blade in Obi-Wan's heart.

At last, he fastened his gaze on Qui-Gon and asked the question he hadn't been able to ask Master Yoda, nor even himself, in the long, dark nights of loneliness since Anakin's turning. "Master...where did I go wrong? What did I do, or not do, that he should embrace Darkness so completely?"

"You trained him as best you could, Padawan." Qui-Gon's tone was gentleness itself. "You instructed him as thousands upon thousands of Jedi had been instructed. No one could fault you for your methods."

"For my blindness, though. Why did I choose not to see the evil growing in him?"

"Sometimes we are blinded to the faults of others."

"But I should have --"

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon interrupted, "I must remind you that it was I who insisted he be brought to Coruscant. I asked you to train him. So perhaps I am to blame." 

Obi-Wan considered this. "I did warn you."

"And obeyed my dying wish all the same," Qui-Gon rejoined with a smile. "Your dedication is impressive." The image moved closer. "Padawan, you can blame yourself all you wish, but you did not move Anakin's hand to destroy the sand people. Nor did you help him lay waste to the Temple, nor wreak havoc across the galaxy, as he is doing now. Anakin allowed himself to be seduced by the Dark side of the Force. You cannot hold yourself responsible for his failings."

"But if I had seen it earlier...if I had known about this..." Obi-Wan swept a hand toward the three monuments. "I might have been able to tell him..." He fell silent, staring off into the distance, caught up in the past.

"Tell him what, Padawan?"

"Tell him about love...and vengeance." Obi-Wan fixed his gaze upon Qui-Gon. "Do you remember?"

Qui-Gon turned away, his head bowed. When at last he replied, his voice was softer than the breeze. "Yes. I remember."

*

The negotiations on Silun had proceeded poorly. Neither side of the two warring factions, the Oren and the Kalb, had been willing to disarm, and Silun's ruling government had reached its wits' end. Qui-Gon's suggestion of a summit talk had been met with disgruntled agreement. At the last moment, the leader of the Kalb had refused to attend, sending envoys in his stead. The Oren had taken the Kalb's gesture as the insult it almost surely was, and the banquet following the talk had simmered with tension.

Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had taken their places at the head table with some trepidation. Their attempts at decorous conversation foundered; both factions' representatives had glared at each other in stony silence between bites of sumptuous food.

Qui-Gon surveyed the grim faces around him with an expression of mild dismay. "You can lead an eopie to water..." He sighed and shook his head.

"Sometimes it's not even possible to do that." Obi-Wan observed dryly.

"Premier Lerrian suggests that you and I make a journey to the Kalb headquarters tomorrow -- alone, or rather, accompanied by the Kalb emissaries. A good-faith gesture, she says."

"They may be less antagonistic if we were to speak with them first," Obi-Wan agreed. It seemed Qui-Gon's theory about the Kalb's reluctance to join the Republic was correct. "Though it appears they've tipped their hand."

"True enough. I don't know whether that's a sign of obstinacy or clumsiness." Qui-Gon smiled at Obi-Wan. "Patience. We've only just arrived, and I suspect we're in for several weeks of negotiation, at least."

Obi-Wan pitched his voice low so that only Qui-Gon could hear him. "I can't understand why they would want to keep Silun from joining the Republic, though. Both the Oren and the Kalb are suffering from poverty and poor medical care because of the ongoing conflict. You saw their settlements, Master -- appalling. The benefits to joining would be immeasurable. Why can't they see how senseless the fighting is?"

"It's been my experience that people are often conveniently ignored in favor of policy," Qui-Gon replied in the same tone. "To say nothing of personal ethics. Under Republic law both sides would have to disarm; their weapons are clearly more important  
than the welfare of their citizens. It's our job to persuade them to look at people first, policy second. I think taking these dignitaries to the more wretched settlements may prove enlightening."

"Provided they even agree," Obi-Wan said. "We have our work cut out for us."

"Indeed we do, Padawan." A gong sounded, signaling the end of the meal. Liveried attendants appeared to escort the representatives to their sleeping chambers. After a brief conference with the premier, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon followed the servants down a long, narrow corridor to the doors of their respective rooms. Qui-Gon paused at his door. "Would you like to take a walk in the gardens?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. In truth, he would have liked nothing more. A few years ago, he had discovered his admiration and love for his master was compounded by a longing so ardent that at times he could scarcely breathe in Qui-Gon's presence.

At twenty-three he was a virgin by choice, not necessity. At first, he thought this need -- lust, were he to be entirely honest -- had simply been a matter of raging hormones. He had briefly considered a quick liaison with one of his agemates. Finding a willing companion would not have been difficult; he had been approached by friends, and gently teased about his celibate state, but in the end, none of them had turned his head. 

Obi-Wan had not entertained even the faintest hopes that his feelings were reciprocated, but lately, in the past few months, he had noticed a change in Qui-Gon's demeanor. There were glances that lingered seconds longer than usual, an oblique murmur now and again about the pleasure of Obi-Wan's company, a gentle pat on the shoulder that metamorphosed into the briefest of caresses. Nothing a casual observer would detect, but to Obi-Wan, they were beacons of encouragement. 

Nonetheless, he had resolved to wait until he was knighted to approach Qui-Gon, thus avoiding any accusations of impropriety. Besides, he'd gone without sex this long; another few years wouldn't kill him. Thus, it was probably better not to take any chances. A walk alone with Qui-Gon on a lovely evening could prove to be too great a temptation. "Thank you, Master, but I think I've had a little too much to drink. I'm unusually tired." Nothing more than the truth; he had drunk more  
than was his custom, and his eyelids felt weighted.

"Very well," Qui-Gon replied. "I think I'll walk, though. I'll see you in the morning." 

Despite Obi-Wan's fatigue, a surge of yearning left him nearly dizzy. He inclined his head with all the dignity he could muster. "Good night, Master."

Qui-Gon clasped Obi-Wan's shoulder. "Sleep well, Padawan." He paused as if to say more, then returned Obi-Wan's nod and strode toward the outer doors.

Obi-Wan watched him go with a pang of regret. Shaking himself, he slipped into his chambers. They were ridiculously large, with an elegant sitting room, a luxuriously appointed bath, and a bedroom with a bed big enough to sleep four. He pulled off his clothes and crawled into bed, sighing at all that unused space, and fell asleep at once.

*

It seemed like moments later that he was awakened by a stealthy, sliding thud. He opened his eyes to total darkness, but it took tremendous effort; his eyelids slipped closed again. Rousing himself enough to lift his head from the pillow, he blinked, then stilled, sensing the presence of others in the room. He reached out to throw off the bedclothes, shocked at the slowness of his movements, and gasped aloud as someone pinned his arm down. A knee drove into the small of his back, and his head was grasped by his short tail of hair and thrust deeply into the pillow. He sucked in a mouthful of silken fabric and choked.

Someone had drugged his wine. Had they drugged Qui-Gon's, as well? Obi-Wan fought to turn over, but was hampered by the bodies pressing him down and his own state of intoxication. He thrashed and kicked madly, struggling to breathe. Then a heavy blow landed behind his ear, and a bright spark of pain sent him hurtling into unconsciousness.

*

Obi-Wan awoke with an aching head and a dry mouth, but his vision was clear. His attempt to rub the sore spot on his skull was impeded by the carbon ropes that held his wrists and upper arms securely to a cot. He lay back, assessing his surroundings.

He was in a tiny, dimly lit room, furnished only by the cot and a hard, functional chair. It was unfamiliar to him, but if he had to guess, he would bet his last credit that this was the stronghold of one of the warring contingents. An irritated groan escaped him. Bartering lives was always foolish, more so when Jedi were involved. Obi-Wan had broken free from heavily guarded prisons before. Still, he had been ill-prepared for his attackers, and that was a source of shame.

There was no point in wasting time on self-recrimination, however. There were more pressing matters at hand. He debated with himself for a moment; would it be more prudent to lie still and feign helplessness, to free himself and wait for his captors, or to free himself and simply flee? Both fortresses were remotely located; he would have to find a vehicle to return to the capital city. That would involve subterfuge at the least, violence at most.

He decided to free himself and wait for his captors. He concentrated on bringing the Force to bear on the ropes that bound him, but when he willed the end of the knot to slide itself out of its complicated configuration, nothing happened. Frowning, he tried again; nothing. A third attempt yielded the same total inaction. Irrationally, he yanked at the ropes, but got only a burn for his trouble. Simple logic supplied the answer: he was still drugged, obviously. The only thing to do, then, was wait.

Settling into a steady rhythm of breathing, he closed his eyes, noticing for the first time how cold the room was. His naked flesh pebbled into bumps. A wry smile curved his dry lips. Preparedness was often stressed in Jedi training, but no mention had been made of the necessity of being fully dressed at all times, just in case one was kidnapped in the middle of the night.

As it turned out, he did not have long to wait. Almost as soon as he had closed his eyes, the door slid open, admitting three figures. Two were large-framed and hulking, clad in battle armor and the quasi-military tunics of the Oren. Their small reptilian eyes glittered, weapons drawn and ready at hand.

The third was a compactly built human male in plain black armor and leathers. His skin was pale, his eyes grey, his brown hair worn long and pulled into a tail. He was well-favored but for the thick, bright pink scar that writhed up his forehead. It had pulled one of his brows into a permanent arch, giving him an aspect of disgusted astonishment. He took the chair, swung it so the back faced the cot, and straddled it, resting his arms across the top. The man smiled, but there was no friendliness in his expression, merely cold, sterile amusement. "Obi-Wan Kenobi," he said conversationally. His voice was soft, with a trace of musical intonation.

"Yes," Obi-Wan said. "I haven't had the pleasure."

"Bonnor Heusin." When Obi-Wan did not react, the disfigured brow jumped a little higher. "You do not know of me?"

The name rang a distant bell, but Obi-Wan could not immediately place it. "No."

The grey eyes narrowed. "It appears I have you at a disadvantage, then."

"It would seem so."

"Qui-Gon was supposed to have occupied this room," Heusin said, flicking a gloved finger against the carbon rope wrapped around Obi-Wan's upper arm. "You are here through a tactical error, I'm afraid -- my men chose the wrong sleeping chamber. Bad news for you, but possibly good news for us." 

Surprised at the casual use of his master's name and momentarily ignoring the implied threat, Obi-Wan asked, "You know Qui-Gon?"

Heusin's mouth flattened into a grim line. "Yes. You are his apprentice, are you not?"

"I am. And I must tell you that if this is an attempt to force his hand, it will fail. The Jedi do not bargain with terrorists."

"He will bargain with this one. For your life, young Jedi."

A faint prickling of unease touched Obi-Wan's spine. "You are very much mistaken."

"I think not." Heusin ran a fingertip across the scar on his face. "I have this thanks to him. My wife and son are dead because of him. Now I have his apprentice. I think it may be a fair trade -- for the moment."

Now Obi-Wan remembered. Bonnor Heusin -- better known as the Craftsman. A name in a history text, relegated to distant memory.

Once a decorated Ibernon soldier, Heusin had gained recognition on the field of massed battle in the Gallantine wars. When he had returned home to Ibernon, he found himself impoverished, set adrift by a government unable or unwilling to compensate its veterans. Bitter and enraged, Heusin, like many others, had turned to mercenary operations, his talents available to the highest bidder. He specialized in protecting merchantmen from pirate attacks, and soon gained fame for his ruthless efficiency.

But his sense of betrayal had not lessened with his increasing fortune. His methods of operation grew ever more brutal, and he quickly became enmeshed in the shadowy underworld of mercenary enforcement. Wet intelligence, they called it, or traumatic morale deformation; he had earned the ironic name Craftsman because of his patience and persistence in extracting information from his unfortunate victims. But he was slippery, easily avoiding Republic justice. Evidence of wrongdoing was buried, or blasted, as were most witnesses. The few who survived had difficulty in making their stories heard; those who tried hardest were quickly silenced.

Fifteen years ago, Qui-Gon had been part of a team dispatched to bring Heusin to justice. The battle had been fierce; three of the four Jedi had died at Heusin's hands, one in a way that not even the history texts would detail. Only Qui-Gon had lived. He had dealt Heusin what seemed a mortal blow, but Heusin, burned and in agony, had made his way to a Trade Federation corvette with his young wife and infant son. Qui-Gon had pursued them, and a stellar onslaught had ensued. Qui-Gon managed to cripple the corvette, half its hull blasted to a smoking hulk, before the damage to his own ship necessitated an emergency landing.

Heusin had escaped. It was rumored that the Trade Federation had paid for extensive reconstructive surgery, and that Heusin was now at least one-third machine. It was further rumored that Heusin had sworn a vendetta against the Jedi and against Qui-Gon Jinn in particular. A few years ago, the whispers had ceased; it was said that Heusin had died. Now it seemed he was very much alive, and the time to pay was at hand.

"I see recognition in your eyes, young Jedi," Heusin said. "You remember me now."

Obi-Wan suppressed a shiver. Certainly he and Qui-Gon had encountered adversaries who'd borne grudges, but never one with such a fearsome reputation. "Yes, I remember you," Obi-Wan replied coolly. "It's a great pity that the Oren have hired you."

"Is it?" Heusin nodded to his bodyguard; one stepped back, opened the door and reached down, dragging in a huddled form covered in blood. "Tichelar Makum, leader of the Kalb coalition," Heusin said. 

Obi-Wan stared at the crumpled figure. "But...he refused to attend the banquet..."

"Yes. He had another engagement...with me. I think the tide will turn in the Oren's favor very soon."

Makum moaned. Force, still alive! Obi-Wan strained futilely at the ropes. "He needs help. You can't let him suffer like that."

Heusin shrugged, the picture of indifference. "He'll die shortly. My intention was not to leave him alive. You cannot imagine my delight at discovering that Qui-Gon was handling the negotiations. I hadn't forgotten him, but I've been very busy."

"Busy murdering and torturing," Obi-Wan retorted.

"If you like. In any case, I had no idea he had an apprentice." Heusin gazed thoughtfully at Obi-Wan. His grey eyes were no longer flat; they glowed with a strange, anticipatory joy. "So coldly self-possessed, so like your master. What wonderful possibilities lie in store for you, Obi-Wan." He rose from the chair and strode to the door, stepping over the now silent body of Tichelar Makum.

"You're making a grave mistake," Obi-Wan said. His situation had worsened considerably, but all was not lost. He had only to be calm, think carefully, and act decisively.

Heusin turned back toward Obi-Wan. "Do you know where you are, young Jedi? You are in the capital city, seven hundred meters below the surface. How long do you think it will take for Qui-Gon to find you? He will not know who to trust. He will go to both the Oren and the Kalb, demanding information, but will come up empty-handed. Nevertheless, I'm sure he'll find you eventually. Think of all we can accomplish in that intervening time. And when he does come for you..." Heusin trailed off, one side of his mouth curling in amused contempt. He moved into the corridor, his boots echoing off the stone floor.

A harshly barked command made Obi-Wan's heart sink.

"Bring him."

*

They forced him to his knees over a bench. His hands were bound behind him, his elbows tied together, forcing his shoulders painfully back. A plain metal collar encircled his neck; a short chain led from it, attached to a ring in the bench. He could  
not raise his upper body. Cold, rough stone abraded his chest and cut into his midsection. His ankles were tied apart, fastened to rings in the floor. 

Obi-Wan steadily met the gaze of the Oren who was tethering him. Testing his bonds, he found them depressingly secure. His limited field of vision revealed the other Oren and Heusin engaged in conversation at the far end of the dank room, which presumably served as a torture chamber, judging from the number of sinister implements scattered about.

Containing his apprehension was a difficult feat, but he managed, closing his eyes and breathing steadily until his heartbeat slowed. He had been tortured before, but for information, never for its own sake, and he preferred to remain aloof from that unpleasant prospect if at all possible. More importantly, he had to escape before Qui-Gon arrived. A stalemate ending in Qui-Gon's surrender was an intolerable thought. His grasp on the Force was still muted, but perhaps there was a chance. Quietly, he addressed the Oren. "Release me."

The Oren stared at him in faltering confusion. One scaled hand drifted toward the lock on Obi-Wan's collar.

"Yes," Obi-Wan encouraged, putting what little power he had into his words. "You must free me."

"I must free you," the Oren replied, making no effort to lower his voice.

"Hush!" Obi-Wan hissed, but it was too late. 

Heusin walked over to the stone bench and peered down at Obi-Wan. "What's this? Jedi treachery?" With no wasted motion he drew a knife from the sheath at his waist, turned a brief, merciless stare on the bewildered Oren, and slit his throat. The Oren clutched at his scaly neck, gurgling in agony as blood surged from the wound, then fell over.

Obi-Wan listened to the anguished noises issuing forth, each moan a condemnation of his carelessness. He twisted his hands but got only a sharp pain in his wrists and shoulders. "Heusin --"

"Silence," Heusin replied, tapping a forefinger against Obi-Wan's lower lip. "Your problem in enlisting assistance is twofold, Obi-Wan. First, I shall, without the slightest hesitation, kill anyone who attempts to aid you, whether by their own will or the imposition of your will upon theirs. Surely you see how unfair that is. Second, do you see that guard?" He indicated the second Oren with a wave of his hand. "See how he glowers at you? If you continue to allow their compatriots to be killed, I cannot prevent their anger, which will be considerable, I think. They may exceed their instructions. That could be painful for you."

"How long do you think they'll tolerate your cruelty?" Obi-Wan demanded. "You are the one who holds the knife."

"But you are the cause," Heusin replied. "They understand that."

Obi-Wan cast a despairing glance at the dead Oren. "Very well," he said. He would escape without aid. The drug had nearly worn off. It would be the work of but a few moments to free himself. 

As if he'd read Obi-Wan's thoughts, Heusin chuckled and drew out a hypospray. "Just to ensure your docility, young Jedi. You should know that this inhibits neither your awareness nor your pain receptors. It merely weakens your hold on the Force. A brilliant invention."

"No --" Obi-Wan thrashed, but gained no greater freedom. The hypo sank into his right thigh; almost immediately he felt his tenuous grasp on the Force lessen, then slip away. Fear spiked him like a lance as he struggled for control. "Heusin, listen to me."

"I think not." Heusin moved away, then returned to kneel directly before Obi-Wan, holding up a thick piece of wood the length of a hand. Hide thongs dangled from either end. Unceremoniously, he pushed it into Obi-Wan's mouth, tying the thongs at the back of Obi-Wan's neck in a strong double knot. "I don't like to have my work interrupted by conversation I don't control. You will be permitted no stalling, no useless pleading, no attempts at trickery. When you have something to say that I want to hear, I think we will both know it...should you wish to discuss your master with me, for example."

Obi-Wan shook his head. If Heusin's reputation were justly earned, then Obi-Wan was better off silenced. He would reveal nothing that would put Qui-Gon at a disadvantage.

"Oh yes. But there's no rush, Obi-Wan. Plenty of time for chatting. Meanwhile --" Heusin rose to his feet and strolled to a shelf, selecting what looked like a sawed-off Force pike. "I think we can begin with your feet. The naked foot is a truly vulnerable thing. You've stepped on a sharp piece of metal in bare feet, I'm sure, or broken glass, perhaps. Have you ever felt a Force pike applied to the bottom of the foot? Even someone who leads a life as rigorously physical as yours has tender places there."

Against his will, Obi-Wan felt his fear mounting. Stop, he chided himself. It's a scare tactic. You're behaving like a third-year initiate. He closed his eyes, attempting to shut out Heusin's low, pleasant voice. He didn't need the Force to find his calm center. After a few seconds of intense concentration, Heusin's voice became a steady, faraway drone. He shivered minutely as Heusin ran a fingertip over the sole of one foot, but no more. Sensation dimmed; all was a cool, pleasant, greyish haze, as though he were wrapped in a summer stormcloud. 

Then the pain came, sudden, searing, instantaneous. His foot felt as though it had been set afire. Obi-Wan gasped, sucking in air around the crude gag, and arched his body. Agony flared in his strained shoulders, in his neck as he yanked against the  
collar.

He could not tell how long it went on. When Heusin finished, Obi-Wan sagged against the stone bench, shivering, the toes of his injured foot curling and uncurling in anguish. Sweat trickled down his forehead, into his eyes, stinging them. He bit down  
hard on the wood, fumbling now for his calm center, slow and inept.

"I've only begun, young Jedi. Save your strength. I'm sure Qui-Gon has scarcely commenced his search for you."

Would that it were so! Obi-Wan longed for Qui-Gon to come -- but on his own terms, and at his advantage. He must have the element of surprise to aid him. Obi-Wan would not betray his master, whatever torments he was forced to endure. He sent a heartfelt plea into the Force. Master, I am in dire peril -- 

Against his hope of rescue came a troubling thought. Perhaps it was his greater duty to warn Qui-Gon away, not to depend on his master to save him. -- but so are you! By all you hold dear, stay away. I --

The pike descended again, obliterating all conscious thought.

*

Hours later, he was thrown into a cell furnished with a waste hole and a lamp suspended in a wire-mesh cage. There was no water spigot, no heat source, not so much as a mat for the cold stone floor. Shaking uncontrollably, Obi-Wan lay on his side, knees drawn up to his chest, and tried to sink into meditation.

Time passed. Obi-Wan found it impossible to settle into a relaxed state. His feet twitched spasmodically in remembered suffering, and the rest of his body continued to tremble with sympathetic tension. The light above him flared from dim to blinding at irregular intervals, granting him no rest. He closed his eyes tightly and clasped his hands together, willing the pain to move through him. Just as the worst of the shivering had subsided, the door opened, and a guard poked his head inside.  
Seconds later, Obi-Wan gasped and thrashed, biting back a scream as icy water cascaded over him, soaking him from head to foot.

"Sorry, Jedi. Following orders. Not my choice."

Agonized, his teeth chattering, Obi-Wan was distantly amazed. The Oren guard's sibilant whisper sounded genuinely remorseful. "Thank you, that's...a great...comfort to me," he managed, almost biting off the tip of his tongue in an effort to speak.

"I give you some free advice, Jedi, because you seem a decent fellow," the guard continued. "If you have a means to end your life, do it soon. I saw Heusin work on that Kalb, Makum. I hate the Kalb like poison, but I wouldn't have wished that fate on anyone."

"I'll...I'll...keep it in mind."

"It's no joke. He'll do things to you that don't leave a mark on your body, but..." The guard trailed off hesitantly.

"And you prefer...his methods to...to negotiation."

"I've no choice in the matter."

With the last of his fading strength, Obi-Wan raised himself to his elbows. "What is your name?"

The guard blinked in the sudden glare of the lamp. "Schalles. Schalles Konop."

"I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. I implore you to help me," Obi-Wan whispered. "Help me out of here. You see this isn't right. Heusin's methods...I haven't the ability to escape on my own."

Konop backed up a step, as if Obi-Wan had threatened him. "I can't, Jedi. I'm sorry. It would mean the end of me."

"Then get a message to my master -- Qui-Gon Jinn. Tell him I'm here. Caution him -- bid him come with an armed escort."

"You ask me to betray my own people, Jedi?" Anger curled around the guard's words like the tails of a whip.

"Your people will not be harmed if you explain the situation to him," Obi-Wan said. "I assure you --" 

Konop looked up and down the corridor, then backed up another step. "I don't think you're in any position to make assurances, Jedi. And I could die just for talking to you. Remember what I said -- if you can kill yourself, do it soon."

"Wait," Obi-Wan pleaded, lifting a hand in supplication. "Schalles, don't go. Wait!" 

The guard scowled, refusing to meet Obi-Wan's eyes, and pulled the door shut. It clanged hollowly, echoing in the bare chamber. 

Obi-Wan slumped to the floor. His body still trembled from cold, but the chill was numbing him; he felt an irresistible desire to close his eyes and sleep, despite his discomfort, despite the light that dimmed and flared, blinding him. He would form a plan, he thought, after he slept a little. Qui-Gon mustn't be harmed. He would have to escape before Qui-Gon came. As soon as he slept.

So thinking, he closed his eyes. Seconds later, the door opened, and Obi-Wan opened his eyes to see Heusin standing above him. 

"You didn't think you were going to rest, did you, Jedi?"

*

continued in part 2 - http://splix.livejournal.com/629968.html#cutid1

 

 

FIC: Honor To The Vanquished [2/2]

 

*

The Jedi knew a score of ways to resist torture, and Obi-Wan had been taught them all. Once or twice, he had even found it necessary to use them. Most of them involved mental detachment, thinking beyond pain and suffering. The Jedi were taught to cling to the Force, to cloak themselves in it as though it were a protective mantle.

But when one's grasp on the Force was clouded and diminished by drugs, when pain moved beyond the simple brutality of beating and flogging into never-imagined excruciation imposed by the vagaries of a cruel and cunning mind -- what then?

Bravery did not matter. Endurance was a relative term. Sleep was a distant memory. Time swelled and distended past significance. The only reality was agony, wave upon wave of anguish.

"I inflict the pain far from your vital organs, Jedi, and thus can prolong your suffering...forever, if I wish," Heusin said. "Think on it -- a lifetime of affliction. If only your master would come, then you could be spared all this. Where do you suppose he is, Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan, who had scarcely wept as a child, had almost become accustomed to the sound of his own screams issuing from his raw and abraded throat. He accepted the inevitability of being tightly bound in a staggering variety of positions, all, it seemed, designed to maximize his discomfort and to mock the vulnerability of his naked body. He learned to ignore the humiliations his tormentors visited upon him -- verbal taunts, slaps, daubing him with his waste as well as their own, the dousings in water so cold it took his breath away. Even the pain, endless and enormous, could be borne.

But why did Qui-Gon not come?

*

"It's been ten days." Heusin's soft, thrumming voice caressed Obi-Wan's eardrum. "And still your disappearance remains a mystery. Your master's ineptitude bores me." 

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. That dulcet murmur had kept at him, hour after hour, day after day, insinuating itself through the fragile threads of Obi-Wan's control until he fancied he could hear Heusin's voice all the time -- calm, quiet, reasonable, utterly maddening. 

"I think he would be impressed with you, though, Jedi. You've borne up remarkably well."

Prevented from answering by the rough wood shoved crosswise into his mouth, Obi-Wan chose to stare at the floor. He could no longer block Heusin's voice. Sometimes it washed over him in a poisonous wave, but more often he heard every word -- and worse, remembered them with crystalline clarity in the silence of his cell, when his injuries forced him to focus on something besides physical distress. Imagining happier times no longer worked. Obi-Wan's universe had narrowed to the confines of his imprisonment.

Today they had bound him standing, his elbows tied together, then yanked up behind him and attached to a winch hanging from the ceiling, with just enough slack to allow him to balance on the balls of his feet. He concentrated on staying still and upright; his shoulders were vulnerable to dislocation in this position. The muscles in his legs quivered from tension and fatigue, a persistent throbbing from previous injuries pounded in his feet. It was merely a matter of time, he knew, before he weakened and caused himself intense pain.

Heusin slid two fingers beneath Obi-Wan's chin, tipping it up and forcing their eyes to meet. "He's close, though."

Obi-Wan's heartbeat quickened. He tried not to let hope show in his eyes, but Heusin's perversely gentle smile informed him the attempt had failed. 

"Yes, close, and as near to losing that vaunted Jedi reserve as I've ever seen. The talks are breaking down, you see, and he's torn between his duty to mediate and his desire to find you. I grew bored, as I said, so I sent him holos from your last three sessions. The clues therein should bring him here shortly. Oh, don't look so humiliated, young Obi-Wan. Your bravery is exceptional. It's perfectly common to scream, and to void one's bladder and bowels under extreme duress."

Cheeks burning with shame, Obi-Wan fixed his captor with a ferocious stare. Hatred bubbled beneath the surface of his calm exterior. His fingers curled and twitched with a longing to fasten themselves about Heusin's pale throat and squeeze until the man's eyes and tongue bulged forth, to reclaim his lightsaber and wield it with abandon, until Heusin was nothing but a pile of charred bone and metal. 

Abruptly, he closed his eyes against the seductive tendrils of darkness that wound about him, strangely soothing. Anger and hate would not help him now. If Qui-Gon were truly nearby, Obi-Wan needed to be alert and ready to aid in his own escape.

"Meanwhile," Heusin continued, "it seems some of the guards have taken a liking to you." As if by unspoken summons, the door slid open and five Oren stepped inside. They circled Obi-Wan and Heusin, their arms folded, their small eyes sparkling balefully. 

Obi-Wan's stomach curdled. Thus far he had not been sexually abused. He had counted it a small mercy, hoping that sexual torture was simply not within their purview. It seemed he was mistaken. And from what he knew of Oren physiology, he realized that a normal human male could not possibly accommodate --

Heusin's hand slid over Obi-Wan's trembling thighs, coming to rest between his legs. "You're not altogether to my taste, Obi-Wan, but I thought I'd make this a little more interesting for you." Without another word and to Obi-Wan's stunned surprise, he knelt, cupped his hand beneath Obi-Wan's cock, and brought his mouth close. His tongue crept out, wetting the tip, swirling around it briefly. 

Obi-Wan shuddered and nearly fell over as a shock of pleasure made his cock jump in Heusin's hand. In seconds, Heusin's mouth enveloped him, eliciting a deep, shuddering moan. Powerless to escape or struggle, Obi-Wan was forced to feel the gentle suction on his cock, the wet, smooth motion of Heusin's lips, the steady rhythm of his tongue. His sex swelled under the unexpectedly delicate treatment until it was big, painfully hard in Heusin's mouth. He felt his hips arching forward of their own volition, heedless of the sharp stabbing pain in his shoulders. He wondered if Qui-Gon would see this too. Tears of mortification rose in his eyes, but he would not let them fall. So much for saving myself for him, he thought. A bitter, choked-off noise broke from behind the gag.

The sucking and licking went on until Obi-Wan thought he would spill in Heusin's mouth. Just before he climaxed, Heusin withdrew. He reached up behind his head and unbound the thong holding his hair in a neat tail. Quickly and efficiently, he wrapped it around the base of Obi-Wan's cock and balls, tying it off in a snug knot. Then he was on his feet, loosening the winch that held Obi-Wan's arms up, ordering the guards to catch their victim before he fell.

They did, and dragged Obi-Wan to the stone bench. Obi-Wan thrashed and squirmed, shaking his head in frantic negation, twisting against the rough, leathery hands that abused his bound and swollen cock. Once more they tied him over the bench, his ankles spread and fastened to rings in the floor. He felt more helpless and naked than at any other time during his ordeal, and cast glances of mute appeal at the guards nearest to him. They would not look at his face, but stroked him ruthlessly. It was less lust in their eyes, he realized, than a desire to mete out suffering.

He felt himself parted. Something cold, wet, and slippery was thrust inside him; he felt it dripping down the insides of his thighs. Then one of the guards positioned himself behind Obi-Wan, grasped his hips, and slammed inside.

The pain was intolerable. A scream was wrenched from his gagged mouth. Agony surged along every nerve; his body was electrified with it. A thick hand curled round his cock and pulled. He climaxed suddenly, explosively, and blacked out for one sweet, forgiving moment.

They brought him round with a bucket of cold water dashed in his face, and then the second guard was on him. Then the third. Each guard raped him twice. Then he was left, still bound to the bench, bleeding, his lungs aching, feeling as though he'd been split in two. He rested his cheek against the cool stone and let the tears fall. He yearned to stop breathing, to give up and allow the cruelty of his captivity to come to a soft, black finale.

Heusin's low voice echoed in the chamber. "Now you know a taste of what Qui-Gon will endure."

Obi-Wan's breath caught in his throat. Sickly rage and the desire for revenge, entirely alien to his nature and temperament, once more coiled its tendrils around Obi-Wan's heart.

This time he permitted them to remain.

*

"He's here, young Jedi."

Obi-Wan turned his face from the satisfaction in Heusin's pale eyes. At last, the moment he had dreaded and longed for -- and Heusin's smug demeanor told more than Obi-Wan wished to know.

"It was far easier than I had anticipated. I simply told him that you had been hidden away, and that you faced dreadful abuse at the hands of my guardsmen. I must say he surrendered very quickly."

Obi-Wan met Heusin's steady gaze, but made no attempt to rise from the floor. He had ceased to fight or plead with his captors, bearing his torments in silence. After they had finished each session, Obi-Wan lay in an apathetic huddle in his cell, often ignoring the stale crusts of bread that served as his daily meal. "You filth," he whispered.

"Perhaps." Heusin nodded to the two Oren who had accompanied him. "In any case, I'm sure you wish to see him."

The Oren grasped Obi-Wan's arms and dragged him out of the cell. They came to the room that served as a torture chamber and shoved him inside. He stumbled over a pile of discarded clothing and fell to his knees.

"Obi-Wan."

It was Qui-Gon, naked, kneeling, and bound to the stone bench. His flesh bore signs of torment -- scourge marks and lacerations, injuries only too familiar to Obi-Wan. Both eyes were blackened and swollen, and his lip was split. Dried blood crusted the corner of his mouth and had trickled down into his beard. A guard knelt behind him, grasping his hips and plowing in with all his might. 

"Master -- leave him alone!" Obi-Wan lunged forward feebly, but Heusin kicked him in the thigh. The pain was hot and explosive. Obi-Wan moaned and curled up on the floor.

"Padawan --" The word was choked off as the guard thrust in deeply and shuddered, a guttural growl escaping his throat. The Oren pulled out of Qui-Gon, eliciting a stifled grunt of pain, and got to his feet.

Obi-Wan saw blood dripping down Qui-Gon's legs. He dug his fingernails into his palms. The fronds of anger and rage that he had allowed to bloom wrapped themselves about his heart and squeezed.

"I'm so sorry, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered.

"I'm going to kill him, Qui-Gon." Cold vitality filled Heusin's voice. "In front of you, slowly, and you'll watch every moment of it."

Qui-Gon raised his head as far as the bonds would allow. "You dare not."

Heusin laughed.

Obi-Wan remained curled up on the floor. His captors had continued to drug him, but for the past few days, they had neglected to bind him at all times, since he no longer offered any resistance. Recently, while feigning sludgy semi-consciousness, he had begun to examine the torture chamber for a means of escape or for a convenient melee weapon. Now, as he lay still, he bit back a smile. They had been careless, and how they would pay for it.

Slowly, painstakingly, he slid his foot backward until it touched the untidy heap of Qui-Gon's clothing. Every muscle trembled as he delicately probed the pile of cloth with his toe until he found what he sought -- the cool, reassuring cylinder of Qui-Gon's lightsaber. 

He was weakened, and half-starved. His captors had deprived him of the sleep so badly needed to help recover from the injuries they'd inflicted upon him. Pain from a thousand disjointures both great and small wracked his body. The Oren had raped him repeatedly, and had stimulated him against his will over and over, horribly intimate violations. They'd made him an object, a half-human thing. And yet he'd clung to life, to the hope of seeing Qui-Gon again. But to see him like this -- helpless, abused, vulnerable -- it could not be borne. 

It would not be borne.

Heusin was speaking, but Obi-Wan did not hear a word. His foot rested against the lightsaber. He met Qui-Gon's eyes for the briefest moment, and then swept his foot forward, dragging the saber close to hand.

Fury gave his wounded body speed. In one clean motion he grasped the lightsaber and leapt to his feet, then lashed out, blindingly fast, killing the two Oren guards who stood beside Heusin. He whirled and decapitated the guard who'd raped Qui-Gon, grinning savagely as his heavy body thudded to the floor.

Heusin went for his weapon. Obi-Wan swept Qui-Gon's blade out in an arc, disarming the man by chopping off his hand at the wrist. Metal sparked and smoked; an odor of burning circuitry filled the air. 

Heusin's face was bloodless, his pale eyes wide and watchful. Carefully, he put his other hand up. "Don't --"

Obi-Wan thrust forward, impaling the man on the humming green blade. Heusin gasped and choked; agony and hot blood suffused his face. Obi-Wan moved forward, pushing the blade deeper, until he was close enough to whisper into Heusin's ear. "A fair trade for what you've done." Then he jerked the saber up, cutting a searing red seam into Heusin's body.

As Obi-Wan switched the saber off, Heusin's body toppled, crashed, and lay still.

Panting, his body on fire, Obi-Wan stared coldly down at his fallen tormentor.

"Obi-Wan..."

"Master --" Chagrined, Obi-Wan hurried to free Qui-Gon. Tenderly, heedless of his own nakedness, he draped Qui-Gon's robe over his shivering body. "How long have you been here? What have they done to you?" He knelt and took Qui-Gon's hands.

Qui-Gon did not respond immediately. He inspected Obi-Wan, his brow creased in consternation. "You're badly wounded, Padawan." He allowed his gaze to rest momentarily on Heusin and the dead guards, then frowned and stood with some effort. "We must leave before more arrive."

Obi-Wan nodded and rose to his feet. Qui-Gon had to grab him to prevent a fall. All the strength he had nurtured in anger seemed to have deserted him. "What of the conflict, Master?"

"Full-blown civil war," Qui-Gon replied. "We'll be lucky to get to our ship."

Moving slowly, Obi-Wan slipped into Qui-Gon's tunic and trousers. They hung on his frame, absurdly large, but were better than nothing. "I'm ready."

Qui-Gon gently pulled Obi-Wan to him in a one-armed embrace. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Obi-Wan replied softly. "I'm sorry they hurt you. But I knew you'd come for me."

Qui-Gon's face, when he moved away, was grieved. "Not soon enough," he said. "Come, Padawan. Let's leave this place."

*

As soon as Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon landed on Coruscant, they were swept off to the medical wing, where Obi-Wan floated in the dreamless sleep of bacta suspension for three days. Afterward, the worst of his injuries repaired, he spent another ten days under observation, enduring well-meaning pokes and prods. He was offered trauma counseling, but refused it, much to the consternation of the healers, who were kind, but infuriatingly thorough.

He felt fine. The physical discomfort had abated completely; every tear and abrasion had been mended. Even the memory of the pain was fading -- astonishing, when only days ago he had longed for the mercy of death rather than enduring another round of torture. And the cold coils of darkness around his heart had receded, but unlike the memory of the pain, the memory of his rage and anger was clear and undiminished. He meditated for long hours on it without satisfaction, and chose to omit that particular aspect of his ordeal from his mission report.

Yoda and Mace Windu visited him once, but asked no intrusive questions. Obi-Wan fancied he saw lively speculation in their gazes, and met them with cool dignity. Also healed, Qui-Gon visited Obi-Wan daily, giving him news of the Temple and the situation report on their ill-fated mission. The entire planet was engulfed in civil war, beyond the influence of the Jedi. Qui-Gon was pleasant and solicitous, but a new reserve had taken hold of him; he seemed anxious to keep his visits brief and businesslike.

At last Obi-Wan was pronounced fully recovered and sent back to the quarters he shared with Qui-Gon. His first action was to check the duty roster. To his surprise, he and Qui-Gon were on Temple duty, charged with research, training demonstrations, event functions -- all tasks normally assigned to Jedi who were too frail or old for active field duty. Obi-Wan frowned at this, but decided not to dispute it. That would lead to queries best left unanswered.

*

Obi-Wan squeezed the excess water from his hair, then plaited his braid with quick, decisive movements. No need to look into a mirror or even at his hands as they worked. It was as natural as breathing. He curled on the couch by the window, watching the traffic, absently curling the end of the braid round his index finger. Soon enough it would be gone. A strange rite of passage, he mused, to wear the braid, watching it grow longer and longer, and then, once knighthood had been achieved, to chop it off and never wear one's hair in that fashion again. Rather like throwing one's childhood away. A slightly bitter smile curved his mouth.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft chime of the door. Qui-Gon strode into the common area, stopping short at the sight of Obi-Wan. "Padawan, I didn't expect to see you."

"Master Ahbri decided she didn't need me this afternoon."

"Very well. Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Would you like something?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "If you're offering, by all means."

Returning the smile, Qui-Gon shrugged out of his robe and moved to the kitchen. He returned a short while later with two steaming bowls and handed one to Obi-Wan, then seated himself at the opposite end of the couch.

Obi-Wan peered at the food. Broth, rice, vegetables, meat. "Very nutritious."

They ate with little conversation. Qui-Gon cleared the bowls away, then nodded at Obi-Wan. "I'm quite tired. I'll see you in the morning, Padawan." 

"Master, wait --"

Qui-Gon turned. "Yes?"

"It's so early. Are you truly that tired?" And why do you avoid me? Obi-Wan thought.

Silent, Qui-Gon half-turned to gaze out the window. The sky had dimmed; the glittering evening lights were just beginning to emerge. Soon their quadrant of the city would be ablaze, dazzlingly bright, the stars outshone.

"I'm sorry, Master. That was impolite of me. I'm going to retire also." Obi-Wan rose to his feet. "Good night."

"Obi-Wan, please." Qui-Gon caught his arm and held it, but gently, as though he were afraid of bruising his pupil. "Sit down. I must speak with you." 

Obi-Wan sat obediently and waited. For nearly a month now Qui-Gon had avoided a real conversation with him. But then, Obi-Wan mused, I haven't been overly eager for in-depth discussion myself. Whose fault is that? 

Sitting beside him -- much closer than before, Obi-Wan noticed -- Qui-Gon reached out and placed his hand atop Obi-Wan's. "I've been...hesitant to speak to you, Padawan, because --" His hand tightened. "I must ask your forgiveness. I was slow to find you on Silun. I did not know Heusin had taken you, and...and I allowed my emotions to cloud my thinking. To my great regret." 

The warmth and pressure of Qui-Gon's hand soothed Obi-Wan. "Master, you found me. My only regret is that I did not see you before...I would not have had that happen to you." 

"But it happened to you, also."

Obi-Wan dropped his eyes. "Yes."

Stillness and quiet spread out between them. Then, Qui-Gon asked, "Is that why you killed Heusin, and the guards?"

"Because they raped me? No."

"Then..."

Obi-Wan could not bring himself to meet Qui-Gon's eyes. "It was because they raped you, Master. Because they hurt you. Heusin was going to kill you. That was his plan. He told me every day, every hour, all the things he was going to do to you before he killed you, and I could not bear the thought of it, so --" His mouth snapped shut as he saw Qui-Gon cover his eyes with his free hand. He freed himself from the gentle grasp and knelt on the couch, facing Qui-Gon fully. "Master, forgive me. I know I allowed my anger to overcome reason, I know I took pleasure in the kill...please, Master --"

"It's not that, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon interrupted. He clasped both of Obi-Wan's hands. "You don't understand. I was feeling the same way."

Obi-Wan started. "What?"

"I did," Qui-Gon replied. "As I was hunting for you, I allowed my anger to increase. My mind was no longer on the dispute. And when I saw the holos, I felt only blinding rage. I permitted that darkness to consume me, and it was my undoing. I was no longer careful. Heusin trapped me. And after I was imprisoned, he told me what he'd done to you, what the guards had done. If I had thought clearly, Padawan, your suffering would have been of shorter duration."

"You don't know that."

Qui-Gon's face was contorted with distress. "Padawan -- emotion is forbidden for a reason. Passion is forbidden so that Jedi do not fall prey to its dangers."

Passion. Those all-too-brief moments between them, the touches, the glances -- they were not insignificant after all.

Obi-Wan placed a hand on either side of Qui-Gon's head, leaned forward, and kissed him on the mouth. "Like that?" How long I've waited to do that, he thought in jubilation, how long. 

Qui-Gon groaned softly. He hesitated, then pulled away. "We can't."

Stung, Obi-Wan rose. "Why can't we? We both feel it. It's perfectly natural --"

"Because, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, his voice low and tense, "those feelings of...anger and posession would overwhelm us in time. You took Heusin's life in anger; I would have done the same. You know that is antithetical to our beliefs." He got to his feet and took Obi-Wan by the shoulders, nearly shaking him. "We must combat this together."

"How?" And, Obi-Wan thought, what if I don't want to?

Qui-Gon held on to Obi-Wan's shoulders. "Meditation," he said. "Self-discipline. Adherence to duty." He moved closer to Obi-Wan. "If we can't manage this, I'll have to withdraw as your master, and by all I hold sacred, Padawan, I don't wish to do that. I want us to be together."

Obi-Wan watched Qui-Gon's eyes, discerning the utter honesty of his words. There was pain in Qui-Gon's face -- pain that Obi-Wan had seen in the mirror on countless occasions. This was not how he had pictured a revelation between them. Twelve years they'd spent together; no one knew him so well. He trusted Qui-Gon with his life. And he knew in his deepest heart that Qui-Gon was right. Better to be together and tamp down emotion than to be apart.

"Then give me one night, Master."

"One --"

"Yes." With careful deliberation, Obi-Wan closed the distance between them, stepping into Qui-Gon's arms. He pressed close, ecstatic at the sensation of Qui-Gon's body against his. "One night. And then...then I'll be a perfectly honorable  
padawan, Master, cool and contained and in control of every emotion, but tonight --" He wound his arms around Qui-Gon's neck and kissed him, rotating his lower body gently until Qui-Gon emitted a deep, shuddering breath. "Let us have tonight for  
ourselves."

In reply, Qui-Gon grasped the back of Obi-Wan's head and pulled him into another kiss.

*

A small, insistent voice in the shadowy realms of Obi-Wan's consciousness told him that he was being too bold, on the verge of untoward. It said that the wounds from his recent experience might have healed physically, but he was ignoring the deeper  
trauma still raw and bleeding. If he had a shred of common sense, he would realize that this night, if carried to its intended conclusion, would entrap him in a way he could never escape.

But when Qui-Gon stood before him, naked, his long, lean body pale in the glow of his bedroom lamp, Obi-Wan ceased to listen. He climbed onto the bed and opened his arms, and Qui-Gon joined him. They embraced tightly, learning the feel of each other's body, the texture and taste of warm skin, the places that drew soft gasps when caressed. In a whisper, Obi-Wan pleaded for Qui-Gon to take him.

Qui-Gon drew back. "Your injuries --"

"Healed," Obi-Wan replied firmly.

Qui-Gon pressed his lips together. "The physical wounds, perhaps."

"It's not important."

"Don't say that, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan pressed a hand to Qui-Gon's lips. "Trust me, Master. You must trust me." He took his hand away and kissed Qui-Gon's mouth. It was firmer, fuller, more lush than Obi-Wan had suspected; he gloried in it.

Then Qui-Gon turned Obi-Wan onto his stomach. He stroked the insides of Obi-Wan's thighs, leaned down to trace wet paths onto the sensitive skin of Obi-Wan's balls, pushed his tongue inside Obi-Wan, making him writhe and beg. Finally, he pushed inside, and Obi-Wan felt an instant of fear and panic, a quick flash to the Oren pounding inside him, one after another. The fear fueled his excitement, and he climaxed with a loud cry.

He felt Qui-Gon behind him, gathering him close. He burrowed into his master's arms, a thousand notions of almost unfathomable complexity jostling for attention. One thought wormed through the rest and hammered at him persistently: this had been a mistake.

It was too soon after his imprisonment. There were too many emotions simmering below his skin, too many feelings ignored and unsorted. If he had waited before speaking and acting so impulsively, soothed Qui-Gon's pain instead of selfishly heeding his own desires...once was not enough, would never be enough. The old teachings were right. Love and loyalty would blind him to duty. Passionate attachment was a path to darkness. The yearning would never leave him now. 

But he had made a promise. And he would never break a promise to Qui-Gon.

Turning to face Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan touched his mouth with a fingertip. He smiled, his heart breaking, and let his hand drift between Qui-Gon's legs. "My turn."

*

The wind had churned up a funnel of dust. Obi-Wan watched it spin across the flat, sandy plain, his cloak wrapped around himself for warmth. Only the ground retained any heat now; the night air was thin, dry and cold. Beside him, Qui-Gon's ethereal form winked and shimmered in the darkness.

"What are you thinking?"

"Blasphemies," replied Obi-Wan with a chuckle, and turned to face Qui-Gon. "I was thinking that perhaps some of the teachings of the Jedi are not wholly correct."

Qui-Gon lifted a brow. "Indeed?"

"Anakin was...damaged," Obi-Wan said. "But my counsel, all the emphasis I placed on detachment did not help him in the end. It was not love for Padme that killed her." Slowly, he got to his feet and began to walk. Qui-Gon drifted beside him. "But I still don't know what I could have done to prevent it. Encouraged their relationship? I don't --"

"Real love does not destroy," Qui-Gon remarked. "It creates, and heals. Remember that, Padawan, in the future." He stopped, compelling Obi-Wan to halt also. "I have not forgotten what happened between us." 

"Nor I," Obi-Wan said. "I always wondered if you regretted it, though. I...I never stopped thinking of it." Qui-Gon moved closer; Obi-Wan found himself longing to touch the image, but held himself back. "I held onto those memories. After you died, they comforted me. Even if...it was only one night, and against the Jedi code."

"I have regrets," Qui-Gon said, "but not, perhaps, the kind you think."

Qui-Gon moved closer still, and Obi-Wan gasped in shock. He felt the warmth of a body, the strength of powerful arms, the rough touch of a woollen cloak, the fragrance of Qui-Gon's hair and skin. Convulsively, he clutched at Qui-Gon's robe and wound his arms around his master. "Qui-Gon --" 

"Shh." Qui-Gon stroked Obi-Wan's hair, pressed his lips to Obi-Wan's forehead. With one blessedly solid hand, he tipped up Obi-Wan's chin. "I regret that I did not hold you close to me every night. That I fled from you rather than helping you cope with your turbulent emotions. That I left you without telling you all this."

Obi-Wan could not speak. He touched Qui-Gon's cheek, the soft bristles of his beard. All real. He swallowed, feeling tears threaten. "Please don't leave. We have so much to discuss...years..."

"I cannot stay like this long. It costs me much. Be assured, Obi-Wan, that we will discuss everything. We have time. Nineteen years, at least." Qui-Gon smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Plenty of time to resolve all your questions, to ease all those old hurts. A long time to wait, perhaps, for some of those blasphemies to become truths. It may be, my padawan, that love will destroy the Sith after all." 

"I don't understand."

"You will, one day." Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan's face in his hands and kissed him. 

Obi-Wan yielded to its sweetness. Not since that long-ago night had he kissed or been kissed. It was the purest ecstasy. He arched forward, pleading with his body, mind and heart and felt the sublime fulfillment of Qui-Gon's love, an unspoken promise upheld, true redemption.

Then, slowly, he felt the warmth and solidity of Qui-Gon's body become insubstantial, fragile. "No." He clutched tighter and felt an eerie dissolving, firm flesh slipping out of his grasp. "Qui-Gon!" Now there was not even a ghostly glowing figure, only a cool breeze to mark the spot where Qui-Gon had been. "Master..."

Sudden warmth grazed Obi-Wan's cheek, like the touch of a gentle hand. A whispered voice surrounded him. "Obi-Wan, I will be with you, always." 

And then, Obi-Wan was alone.

*

He stood out on the plain for a long while, wrapped in his cloak, watching the sky, where a meteor shower stitched glittering, ragged seams in the deep black night. From time to time his gaze wandered to the three stone columns, silent sentries of grief and woe. He felt poised on the edge of a thousand questions. Never had the future seemed so uncertain.

With a sigh, he made his way back to the speeder, its storage cells now humming with renewed life. He got in, cleared some of the spilled supplies, and ignited the engine. It started with a satisfying roar and hovered, as if waiting eagerly to race across the desert floor again.

Obi-Wan hesitated. Tentatively, he raised his fingers to feel his cheek.

Still warm.

A smile touched his mouth. He set the speeder in motion and set off over the plains.

 

End.


End file.
